


White noise

by Quente



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Summer of 2017, beautiful boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 07:37:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13185393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quente/pseuds/Quente
Summary: On anepisode of Happy, Sad, Confused, Timothée talked about (1) how he had to lose a lot of weight for his role in Beautiful Boy, and (2) how he had to make several trips to the hospital while filming.(Also: "Armie's been to my place in New York and put out his arms and hit both sides of the room.")I listened and then wrote this fic.





	White noise

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: if weight things trigger you, this likely isn’t your jam.

Timothée felt hungry, hungrier than he had in a long time. He’d woken shivering in his bed, knees curled in on a stomach so flat and empty it felt concave. It was a far cry from the summer of a year ago, where he'd wallowed in apricot juice and pasta and warmth.

Thinking back, he felt emptier still. Berlin seemed forever ago, and the next time he'd see those guys from That Film would be Toronto. His shoot for Beautiful Boy wasn't half done... September felt like an eternity away.

The alarm rang again, and Timothée struggled to move. His limbs felt as leaden as his stomach felt hollow, and he had to roll himself slowly to one side, swinging his feet down to touch the ground unsteadily. He picked up his phone from the nightstand; it had a text on it from the night before.

It was a picture of Harper smiling and holding a small plush version of Olivia the Pig that Timothée had given her on one of his visits, and "Harper wonders when Uncle Timmy will visit again." 

Timothée stared at it, feeling a pang in his heart. Those had been a few good months, followed by a troubling winter. It was good to reach summer again, although he was never sure what was going on between them. With Elizabeth around it was twice as hard to figure out -- he kept his distance, falling out of the casual, friendly touches they’d given each other for those few months after Crema. If it bothered Armie, he hid it well, and the distance between them just grew.

The roil of emotions hit him far harder than hunger, propelling Timothée to his feet to shuffle into the shared kitchen. The one thing that would distract him was work, and work was where he was going.

"There's coffee," came the disembodied voice of one of his roommates from near the front door of the tiny three-bedroom. “I’m late to put up an installation, see you later, though. Don’t work too hard, man.” Then, a click. 

Timothée drew in a breath and coughed, feeling dizzy. He smelled the coffee, and for a moment it made him feel nauseous rather than filling him with the usual anticipation. He braced his hands on the counter and coughed again.

Maybe no coffee today. Timothée drew himself a glass of water and sucked it back. Was it worth this nonsense, getting his character right? At this point in the shoot, he hardly knew. Maybe he should have a vitamin.

He put it in his mouth, paused a moment, then took it back out. Nope.

Okay, time for work.

~

It was a blessing and a curse, this thing about New York City, where nobody noticed the swaying, overly thin boy on the train, heading to rendezvous at Haight where the day’s scene was being shot. Barriers were getting erected when Timothée got there, and one of the ADs immediately spotted him and helped usher him toward hair and makeup. 

Some very kind soul put a nutritional milkshake into his hands before he sat. “You look like you could use it,” the guy (another AD?) said, patting his shoulder encouragingly. With tiny, careful sips it did make Timothée feel better, well enough that he stopped feeling so unreasonably cold by the time he was ready for the scene.

Today was a scene with Steve Carrell, who was beside him in the makeup trailer chatting amiably with Patricia from wardrobe. Timothée’s mind strayed back to the text he’d gotten that morning, so he turned to Steve.

“Hey, smile.” Timothée took the photo of Steve staring at him inquiringly, just the lightest quirk of a grin on his lips.

He sent the photo of Steve to Armie, writing out, “This guy is keeping me from you, Miss Harper. Done with filming in three weeks, then maybe your dad will let me visit.”

“You’re sending a photo of me to someone, when I’m looking like this? I hope it’s not a pretty woman,” Steve grumbled.

“It is,” Timothée said, smiling, showing him the photo of Harper. 

“Your little sister?”

A text from Armie came in then, and Timothée paused to read it. “Okay, on my way to rescue you from Steve. Harper told me to. She misses you that much.”

The warm glow in his heart was definitely from Harper and not Armie. “Nah she’s Armie Hammer’s daughter.”

Steve’s expression was thoughtful as he glanced over. “You acted with him in Italy last summer, right? I think I read some buzz about that. When’s it out?”

“Next it’s at TIFF. September.”

“You played his lover…”

“Ah.” Timothée made himself not look away or blush or anything. “Yep. It was a weird year. Right after making out with Armie in Italy I went to California and made out with Saoirse.”

“Kid.” Steve rolled his eyes. “Your life sucks.”

Timothée’s phone flashed again. “But seriously, coming to visit you. It’s been too long and I miss you.”

“Okay, we’re actually off this weekend,” Timothée texted back. “Send me your flight info and I’ll meet you. I’m still talking to Harper, right? :D”

“Nope, you’ll have to settle for me. <3 Show me around your town this weekend?”

The warm feeling in Timothée grew, and fine, it had nothing to do with Harper.

Then an AD called them out of the trailer and they began the day. Timothée didn’t have time to reply.

~

Timothée’s smoothie-fueled energy ran out at around hour five, and he slumped against the hard cement wall of the alley, damp from the manufactured rain and shivering from another wave of cold. 

It wasn’t the cleanest. Set dressing was more along the line of making it look worse. Also, he hoped he had enough energy to last the day -- this was hard, dedication to the emaciated guy he was playing was stupidly hard. Especially the havoc it was wreaking with his blood sugar levels and how dizzy it could make him sometimes.

Leaning his damp head back against the dirty wall, Timothée dreamed of a bowl of thick, rich pasta, tomatoes fresh from someone’s garden, topped with the lightest spice of basil. The memory made him think of Armie again -- the taste of that cooking in Armie’s mouth when they kissed, once, after dinner, rehearsing a scene.

Those rehearsals sure were nice, even if Timothée’s body was desperately confused afterwards, his pulse racing and his hormones wondering what part of it was pretend and what was real.

And shoots that only lasted eight hours, that was a dream. 

“Timmy. Hey Timmy.”

“Uh -- whups, sorry. Was daydreaming.”

“Okay, we’ve almost got it,” Felix said, crouching down. “One more take, this time try to be more energetic.”

Timothée stared at him, feeling nothing but deep exhaustion and another shiver of cold.

“Yeah,” Timothée said, although he clung to his dry towel just a little when the AD came to take it from him.

Fuck. He could do this, he was young and strong and -- 

“And -- action,” Felix called, and Timothée went through the pantomime of shooting up, feeling the deep vein burn, stumbling back against the wall -- 

He must’ve knocked his head against something when he fell to the ground, though, because this time around instead of hearing “Cut,” he heard, “Oh shit, Timmy --” before everything went dark.

~

“--Really misses you.”

Huh? Timothée blinked, coughed, and coughed again, seeing the stark fluorescent light of a hospital room ceiling slowly come into focus. His throat was dry, but he was lying down, and the rest of his body felt -- kind of comfortable. Rested, anyway.

That was his mom’s voice. After a moment he heard another voice.

“He’s up. He’s got his eyes open.” Wait -- Armie?

“Where am I? Did I pass out? Shit.” Timothée coughed again.

“You overdid it a little,” Armie said. “Felix apologized for pushing you so hard. Said he wasn’t sure if you were normally that thin or did it for the role -- he was pretty sheepish about the whole thing.”

Passing between Timothée and the ceiling light was a giant backlit shape, one who reached over to pull up a stool and sit beside the bed.

Then Timothée felt a light touch on his hand, and his mother leaned over him too, kissing his brow. 

“Hey, kiddo. You’re at Weill Cornell, the one where I gave birth to you and you got your pediatrics visits, growing up. You have pneumonia, which, of course you do. Only you, with pneumonia in the summertime.” Despite Nicole’s wry tone, Timothée knew she was worried about him. It was in the way her lips pursed, holding back the frown. “Glad I was in town. Felix called me -- you’ve got me listed as your emergency contact. What if I was upstate?”

“Who else would drive all the way here from upstate for my sorry ass?” Timothée said, smiling and giving her hand a squeeze. There was an IV in his arm and he felt weird, floaty. “Am I on painkillers?”

“No. You probably just had a good night’s sleep for the first time in a while. They have you on a nutrition drip -- you’re underweight, Timmy. By a lot. Antibiotics for the pneumonia. Fluids.”

“I’m sleeping fine,” Timothée muttered, suddenly feeling very embarrassed to be there with Armie hearing all this too. “Hey man.” He turned his head to the side, took in another worried expression. “Did I miss meeting your flight?”

Armie’s hand immediately came out and grasped his other arm in a warm grip. “You did, so I called your mom. Then I came to meet her here.”

“Crap. So it’s been --”

“A full 24 hours yeah.”

“Fu --”

“Language!”

“...ck. Sorry mom. Thanks, this … really sucks.” Timothée felt a sudden wash of sadness, and maybe it was his health or maybe he was just broken down from a long summer of not knowing, but he was appalled to feel his eyes welling up from the amount of pain he felt that his nice weekend with Armie was now not a possibility.

He shut his eyes, but felt a tear slide down his cheek anyway. “S-sorry. I just wanted to spend a good weekend with you. It’s been so lo- long.” Timothée’s voice broke on that last word, like some kind of pathetic urchin from Les Miz, and he wanted to die.

Armie squeezed his arm again, and from the pressure on the bed Timothée could tell he’d leaned in, leaned close. Then, gently, Timothée felt lips against the teardrop on his cheek. He opened his eyes in surprise, and saw Armie near him, so near. 

Timothée held his breath for a long, aching moment, breathing Armie in (oh he was wearing that deadly Acqua di Parma cologne again, the smell of him all summer long). Timothée wanted to bring his hand up to touch Armie’s face, but was constrained by the IV -- and his mom, standing RIGHT THERE to witness his hopeless, adulterous crush. 

“I’m glad I’m here to take care of you,” Armie said quietly, near Timothée’s ear. “That is, if you don’t mind?” This part was directed at his mom.

Nicole chuckled. “Timmy, I think you’re in good hands. And if you misbehave and work before you’re well, Armie will call me to yell at you again. You’re a true meshuggah, Armie, for volunteering. This kid can be impossible when he’s sick.”

“Thanks, but it’s no problem,” Armie said, smiling, and Timothée remembered for a weird flash of a moment that Oliver and Armie shared Jewishness -- he knew the word meshuggah as well as Timothée did. Pulling his mind back to the present with another hopeless tug of longing, Timothée shook his head.

“But -- Armie, I’m going to be in the hospital, how is this fun for you?” Timothée struggled to sit up, feeling more hot tears well up, and FUCK.

Armie set a large hand on his chest, and the weight of it pushed him back into the bed, nice and snug and firm. “Don’t you move. This is enough for me. And finally you need me.”

“I always do,” Timothée found himself saying, and then heard his mom sigh.

Oh right, she was still right there.

“I’m going to let you two chat this one out,” Nicole said. “Timmy, rest up, sweetheart. I’ll call.” She squeezed his hand again and got her stuff. 

Armie stood, saying his goodbyes, and then returned to the stool next to Timothée’s bed. “I’m not going to forget you said that. But for now, I think you’re alert enough that you can take some painkillers and pass out for a while.”

“Will you be here while I sleep?” Timothée hated how pathetic he sounded.

“Right here.” Armie’s voice was warm, his smile was warm, his eyes looked -- warm and something else. Hopeful?

A nurse came in at Armie’s call, and soon everything faded out again.

It felt so good to let go.

~

The hospital let Timothée home under Armie’s care a day later. He was still coughing, and still felt like someone had bludgeoned in his chest, but he felt less weak than he had in a long time. He’d mostly slept in the hospital -- they had not yet had the promised chat about Timothée’s moment-of-weakness honesty, and now that he was stronger, he wondered if he should tactfully forget his words.

Inside the apartment, Timothée was greeted by a note from his roommates. “Call us next time you’re going to disappear for a few days, dumbass! Thank god we have your mom’s number. She told us where you were and that Armie was with you. We’re out for a few days, enjoy your time with him. <3”

The heart at the end of the note made Timothée blush, and he crumpled it a second too late. “I forgot to call them,” he said, deflecting. But Armie’s smile became sly and direct.

“So they left us alone together? How nice.” Armie walked into the narrow area between the three rooms that doubled as a living room and kitchenette. He stretched out his arms and grazed opposite walls with his fingertips, chuckling.

“Ah -- I’ll make up one of their beds for you, although our rooms are not much bigger.” Timothée was still blushing. 

“No you won’t,” Armie said firmly. He opened his mouth to say more, and then hesitated. “How about we get a hotel? At least there, the two of us can order soup via room service and neither one of us has to worry about being hospitable.”

“Good idea,” Timothée said, feeling a wash of relief. Armie overpowered his little apartment. “Let me get my stuff.”

Armie came and stood in the door of his room, watching as he shoved some underwear and a change of shirt into his bag. “I’d take you home with me for some of Elizabeth’s excellent soup if I thought you’d do it.”

Timothée heard Elizabeth’s name and took a breath. Right, he shouldn’t be hoping for more than he had.

“That sounds so nice right about now,” Timothée said, sighing. “I really miss that month I basically lived there.”

“She misses you, Harper misses you, Ford… is basically doing nothing but shitting and sleeping and nursing, but he’ll learn to miss you too.”

What did that mean?

“I’m glad to be a weird big brother-uncle guy, then,” Timothée said, chuckling and then coughing.

Armie stepped forward, arm going round his shoulder, waiting until the coughing stopped. “Let’s get you to the hotel.”

~

It was luxurious, a suite with light and a balcony and a view, with two rooms (“So that you can rest and not have to listen to me snore,” Armie said) and a kitchenette. Armie even asked that room service send up soup as soon as they got up there -- soup and hot tea with lemon and honey.

Armie set Timothée up in a recliner in the airy living room of the suite, soup and tea on a tray nearby, and went to make himself a gin and tonic at the bar.

“I’ll split the cost of this suite with you,” Timothée said again, only to meet Armie’s exasperated glance.

“We’re here for two nights, I can afford it.”

Timothée sighed, but let himself drift, eating his soup and watching Armie move with a relaxed ease around the bar. Drink in hand, Armie went to sit on the clean-lined couch, and for a moment there was silence, both of them looking out the window at the pretty expanse of Central Park below.

“If you ever take Elizabeth on a date in New York City -- take her to the roof of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. There’s a fantastic sculpture garden and this same view.”

“When you’re better, why don’t you take me there?” Armie’s voice went softer for a second, and when their eyes met again, Timothée couldn’t believe his cheeks were flushing yet again.

“Aren’t our dating days over?” Timothée tried to make it sound light. It was always professional when they were on set -- except for the affection which bled over, of course, because it was in both of their natures.

Armie stared at him steadily. “I hope not,” he said, and then smiled a little. “Is that, perhaps, why you’ve been so absent from our lives for a while? You thought maybe it was time to pull back?”

“I...just,” Timothée was at a loss for words. “I always felt like I didn’t quite fit, with you and Elizabeth and the kids. As a friend, yeah. But I just kept hanging around until it felt awkward.”

“What are you doing after this shoot?”

Timothée thought ahead, wearily. “Um. My schedule’s empty until TIFF.”

“Take a month off and spend it with me. With us.”

Timothée felt tears prickling in the back of his throat again and had to look away. It was illness making him weak when normally he’d make light of it all, deflect, find himself a space in Armie’s warm heart even though it seemed impossible.

“As what?”

“As whatever you want. I never wanted to pressure you, but I’ve felt you slipping away …”

It was the tone that made Timothée meet Armie’s eyes again, and he saw something in his gaze -- something yearning, uncertain, in pain as much as Timmy was. It made Timothée brave, or maybe it made him just give up all his fucks.

“Your...your lover, then? Would it be okay?” 

Armie let out a huge breath, as if he’d been holding it.

“Oh, Timmy, would you let me?”

They grinned at each other like idiots for a long, long moment.

“I still fucking love you, ya dumb amoretz,” Timothée finally said, shaking his head. “I never stopped, it’s so embarrassing.”

“Hey now, my grandma spoke yiddish too, I know what that means, and that’s redundant.”

They kept grinning. It felt like the bursting of a weird dam, to admit that maybe every second they’d spent working toward something was not all just imaginary.

“I, uh, have a lot of questions, though,” Timothée said, after the silence seemed to heat up and burn between them. “Will you come see me on weekends like a real affair? I love Elizabeth too, she’s perfect in every way. She’s not going to kill me, is she?”

“You’re lucky you’re sick or I’d be kissing you so much we wouldn’t get to talk about this. Uh.” Armie took a sip of his drink, looking sheepish. “She was the one who sent me here and told me to figure it out with you. I guess I was moping around a lot.”

Timothée made a mental note to send her something nice. “So, uh, what’s Elizabeth’s favorite flower?”

“Not telling, you’ll have to get that out of her yourself.” Armie sat back and let his eyes travel all over Timothée, ending up at his face. “I want to feed you up and go biking with you again. I want you to spend a whole month with me. I’ll take you to our favorite restaurants, and you and Hops can play, and I can watch Elizabeth charm your pants off.”

“Literally?” Timothée said, weakly. He could imagine it, and suddenly felt in over his head. But it was a happy feeling of drowning. It was all around him, the love, the family -- overwhelming.

“Literally.” Armie’s voice was a low, low purr. “And she’s got the recipe for my granny’s matzoh ball soup, too. We’ll get you healthy again in no time.”

This time, when the tears started sliding down Timothée’s cheeks, he knew it was from sheer relief. It was hard to describe, but he tried, because Armie’s look was questioning.

“Sorry, I keep… It’s been so stressful. I kept thinking of you, kept eating less and less for the role. I felt like I was failing everyone, I couldn’t focus, I was too weak to keep it all together.”

Armie was over at him in seconds, sitting on the edge of the chair, gathering Timothée’s head in against his chest. “Hey. You’re not alone any more. If there’s anything we understand, it’s how to make a family work when everyone’s doing their crazy job.”

And this time, when the words sank in that he wasn’t alone any more... Timothée cried in earnest, with Armie’s fingers gently caressing his hair the whole time, and his soft voice in Timothée’s ear, hushing away his pain.

~

Four weeks later, it was the start of what Timothée would later call his “detox month.” He stepped out of the plane and slid sunglasses onto his nose, hefting his only luggage, a carry on rucksack, over his shoulder. 

Armie was there at the airport waiting, similarly masked in sunglasses.

“It’s a good thing you look like every single other ridiculously hot actor in sunglasses here at the airport or I’d be worried about fans mobbing you,” Timothée joked, reaching out to prod Armie in the side.

Armie immediately frowned at him, and reached out to gather Timothée under a warm arm. Timothée always felt small next to him, no matter that he was lanky himself.

“You’re so goddamned unique I fear I’ll lose you to a mob of fans any moment, so I guess we’re not even at all.”

“...And I still can’t kiss you because we’re out in public,” Timothée sighed.

It had been a long fucking month. Armie left him with a long hug and a kiss to the hair right before sending him back to Felix and the anxious cast of the film -- but without ever giving him a real kiss because, Armie apologized, he couldn’t risk getting the kids sick.

“We’ll be alone soon enough.”

“Alone? What about the family?”

Armie gave him that sly sideways glance again. “We have the house to ourselves until tomorrow.”

It was amazing how a few words could light up Timothée’s entire spine. “Go easy on me, man. I’m just barely not a teenager anymore,” Timothée joked. “It’ll be hard to walk if you keep saying things like that.” 

“I … can’t fucking wait to make out with you for hours and hours, until your lips are chapped and you can’t figure out whether I taste like you or you taste like me,” Armie said in the most conversational tone possible, right as a small crowd of passing teens noticed them and pointed.

“Crap, Armie,” Timothée groaned, and peeled himself reluctantly away to do the good thing and pose for a lot of selfies.

~

Armie was true to his word, and the second after Timothée put his stuff down and ate some leftover meatloaf and drank a glass of wine, Armie pounced. Up against the wall, Timothée closed his eyes and remembered -- the shape of that body against his, the tilt of his neck to meet lip to lip, and the wine they slid back and forth between their mouths with a slow luxury.

Timothée was hard in no time. In fact, it felt like Crema all over again, falling helplessly in love with the big guy with nowhere to put it except into his own hand -- longing for Armie’s body every night, for his kisses every day.

That hand was cupping the back of his head again. Those lips parting and meeting again in wet smacks. It was such a visceral memory that Timothée pulled back a moment, drawing in a breath.

He traced his thumb over Armie’s bottom lip.

“Elio.” Timothée said, feeling almost shy and embarrassed for bringing it up, and felt the smile against his thumb.

“I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> My CMBYN fan Tumblr is [over here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/nothing2fic). :)


End file.
